


I'll Hold onto You

by orphan_account



Series: Sweet Caroline (Do Do Dooo) [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18734911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Andrei isn’t small. Not by the world’s standards, and not by hockey standards either.He’s tall, broad, built like he can take a hit or dish one out, yet he always seems able to make himself small enough to fit under Dougie’s arm or in his lap.It’s not really something Dougie thinks about, until it is.





	I'll Hold onto You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, and I make no profit for it.
> 
> Set during the 2018-19 Hurricanes season through the second round sweep of the Isles.
> 
> Anonymous posted a Dougie/Andrei fic yesterday, and I realized I needed more, so this happened. Please, give the world more Dougie/Andrei (I formally nominate Dougdrei as the ship name.)!

Andrei isn’t small. Not by the world’s standards, and not by hockey standards either.

He’s tall, broad, built like he can take a hit or dish one out, yet he always seems able to make himself small enough to fit under Dougie’s arm or in his lap.

It’s not really something Dougie thinks about, until it is.

\----

He’s comfortably buzzed, a couple beers getting him loose and relaxed, as he listens to the guys tease Kegger about getting some girl’s number.

It’s hot as hell in the bar, the muggy air from outside billowing in each time the door is opened, carrying the scent of barbeque in from the restaurant a few doors down. In Calgary, it’d be snowing by this time, fat flakes forcing him to bundle up in a parka and heavy boots, but this isn’t Calgary. It’s Raleigh, hot and humid Raleigh, because he’s a Cane now, and it’s good. He likes North Carolina, likes the friendly people and the team, likes Brind’Amour’s style, but he’s still getting used to it all.

Sometimes, he’ll send a pass up into the offensive zone right where Johnny should be, ready to send it in on a one-timer, or he’ll be backchecking and just barely stop himself from shouting at Mark for a double team. It’s different. It’s different, but it’s good.

When they’d gotten their first home win, Willy had announced that they would be going to celebrate at one of his “old favorites” and that attendance was not optional.

“Luckily all the museums are closed, otherwise we’d never get Dougie to come,” Slavs had joked, throwing him a light elbow and an easy grin.

A couple months ago—hell, a couple weeks ago—it would have hurt to hear that, still too cut up about the trade and the shitty rumors going around, but at that moment, it had felt effortless to shove Slavs back and toss a dirty sock at his head as everyone had laughed, light and easy. When they had rolled into the bar, Slavs had asked what he wanted to drink, and Dougie had taken it as the intended apology.

That was a couple beers ago though, and when Willy asks if anyone wants a refill, Dougie shakes his head, waving his bottle to show the few swallows that remain. To his right, Svech is sneaking sips from a drink someone had gotten him, grinning ear-to-ear, though he’s probably more buzzed off his first NHL goal than the weak traces of alcohol rolling through his system.

Dougie has an arm stretched out on the booth behind him, slightly sweaty skin sticking to the leather, and he shifts, cringing as he peels his forearm off and runs into the warm line of Svech’s shoulders.

Svech tenses up for a moment, the muscles under Dougie’s arm going tight and strained, and he’s about to apologize, to pull back his arm and resign himself to the uncomfortable feeling of sweaty skin on leather when Svech sinks back into it, slouching until he can fit himself under Dougie’s arm, shoulders dropping enough that Dougie’s hand ends up hanging in the space between Svech and Turbo, knuckles brushing the sleeve of Turbo’s shirt.

Dougie thinks he should probably think about this more, should wonder why Svech has slid close enough that their thighs press together, knee to hip, but he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s comfortable, relaxed in a way he hasn’t felt for months, so he doesn’t think about it.

He curls his fingers around Svech’s upper arm, feels the hand Svech has resting on his thigh, and just enjoys the feeling of team and together and victory.

\----

He maybe should have thought about it, should have woken up the next morning and questioned it before responding to Svech’s text about hanging out after morning practice.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t question it then, and he doesn’t question it when Svech claims the spot next to him two nights later, after a solid win over the Canucks, or at team dinner a week later, scooting his chair close enough for Dougie to rest an arm over the back.

He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t really want to. Closeness with Svech is easy and comfortable despite the language barrier, though that’s quickly disappearing with all the work he puts in.

\----

They’re down 2-1 to the Canadiens, and the locker room is tense during intermission, too many bowed heads and nervously tapping feet.

“We’re better than this, guys,” Rod says fiercely, striding around the room, shaking the papers in his hands as he speaks. “We beat this team two weeks ago, two weeks! There’s no reason we can’t come out with the W today, right?”

He gets some nods, some murmured agreement.

“Oh come on,” he huffs. “Heads up, boys. Heads up. We’ve got a whole nother fucking period to play, so don’t act like this is already over. Now pick your heads up, get out there, and bring it home, eh?”

There’re some shouts, some cheers, and Marty hops up, bouncing from stall to stall, slapping shoulders and tapping helmets to get everyone fired up.

“GINNER!”

“MARTY!”

There’s the thump of gloved fists on pads and the smack of sticks, the two yelling in each other’s faces, and Dougie grins down at his skates, relacing them for the final period.

“SVECH! SVECH! DUDE!” Marty hollers, bounding across the floor to offer the rookie a fond noogie. “For Mother Russia!”

“Fo motter Russia!” Svech echoes, mouth still clumsy around the foreign words like his tongue is too big, but he’s gotten better, so much better since the beginning of training when all he could say was “How are you?” and “Thanks” and “Please”.

“For Mother Russia!” Marty repeats in a roar, banging a fist again Svech’s chest before leaping over to the captain to poke fun at his gray hairs for the thousandth time.

Dougie rolls his shoulders back, rocking his head side to side, as he stands back up, shaking out his arms and legs. The two-minute horn sounds, and they’re waved out, back to the ice for the final period.

As they take their places for the face-off, Svech nods to him, and Dougie tips his head in return before the puck is dropped and the final period begins, the Canes on the attack, hungry for the puck and the win.

He winds up for a shot, rocketing the puck towards Price in the net, but it goes wide, crashing against the boards and rebounding left. He’s dropping back, heading towards the half line and their own zone when they manage to recover it and keep it in, Wally snapping it around the boards as Willy chases it down and dishes it out to Svech who takes a few swings before finally getting it in from an odd angle on the goal line.

Willy and Wally get there first, but Dougie comes in from the left, and when Svech realizes it’s him, he drops his arm enough that Dougie’s slides over his shoulders, and he flashes Dougie a bright grin when he congratulates him.

\----

He doesn’t wonder why Svech defaults to this now when someone scores a goal, arm dropping enough to hook around Dougie’s waist, as Dougie’s wraps over his shoulders.

He doesn’t question the way Svech’s smile goes a little soft each time it’s aimed at him.

He just draws Svech closer.

\----

Though Dougie enjoys going out with the team for a meal or drinks, he’s never been one for the party scene. He’d rather grab a cold one and sip on it than throw back shot after shot, and that’s gotten him in trouble before, made people think he was holding himself apart from them or above them.

The Canes don’t seem to care though. Enough of the guys have wives and kids or just aren’t into the heavy party scene that he can snag a beer and claim a seat on the couch or in a corner, chatting with whoever’s around without worrying about someone calling him shy or a buzzkill.

He’s thinking about heading home soon; the countdown starts in five minutes, and he’d like to get some decent sleep after their hard-fought win against the Flyers. Some of the guys have already left, making noise about bedtimes and grumpy kids, so he won’t feel too bad skipping out once the ball drops.

He’s just coming out of the bathroom when someone crashes into him.

“Dougie! Doug the Thug!” Svech shouts into his neck, one arm looping around his waist as the other hand pats at his chest. He’s not drunk, but he’s tipsy.

“Svech,” Dougie responds, instinctively lifting an arm to steady him.

“Why you call me that?”

The question catches him off guard, and Dougie’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Why you call me that?” Svech asks, pulling back enough to look Dougie in the eye.

“I mean, that’s your name,” he answers hesitantly, wondering how many Svech has had.

“Is last name,” Svech retorts, and he’s got a single finger pressing into Dougie’s chest. “First name, Andrei.”

“I know that.”

“Then why you not use?”

“Because everyone calls you Svech: the guys, the coaches, the trainers.”

Svech, in all honesty, pouts, lower lip jutting out absurdly as he gazes up at Dougie. “You’re not everyone, Dougie.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the heat of Svech’s breath sending a shiver down Dougie’s spine.

“Do you—” he pauses, fingers spasming around a fistful of Svech’s shirt, feeling completely out of his depth. “Do you want me to call you Andrei?” he finally asks, nervously licking at his lips.

“Da,” Svech breathes out. “Andrei, or better is Andryusha.”

“Andryusha?”

Andrei hums, hand sliding up Dougie’s pec and around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls that Dougie really should cut soon. “Da, is what mama and papa call me. Is what family and friends call me. Is what…good friend would call me.”

Dougie’s been told time and again that he has nice eyes, people commenting on the color or shape, though he’s never much cared. Andrei though, Andrei has gorgeous eyes, a deep warm brown that Dougie feels like he could sink into.

“Andryusha,” he repeats more confidently, and he doesn’t stop Andrei when he pulls him down, surging up to press their lips together.

It’s a little sloppy. Dougie hadn’t been expecting it, and Andrei is confident but not coordinated enough after drinking, but it’s good, the wet slide of their lips sending heat low in Dougie’s belly.

He gets a hand up to cradle Andrei’s jaw, tilting his head to a more comfortable angle as he slips him some tongue, and Andrei moans, low and rough, dragging Dougie closer with a hand at his hip, stepping back until he’s pressed against the wall. Fingers tangled in Dougie’s curls, he draws him down, letting out a soft sigh when Dougie presses his teeth into the hollow of his throat, tongue tracing over the tendons.

There’s a burst of applause and the sound of horns being blown, and Dougie is brought forcibly back to his surroundings.

Those are his teammates in the other room; those are their teammates. They are in their captain’s house, surrounded by players and staff, and they’re teammates. Andrei is a goddamn rookie. He’s eighteen. Fuck, he’s eighteen, and Dougie is twenty-five, and this can’t happen. This can’t happen for so many reasons.

He jerks back, stumbling into the opposite wall, and Andrei groans out a protest, hands reaching out to reel him back in.

Dougie sidesteps. “We can’t,” he chokes out. “Svech, Andrei, we can’t.”

“Dougie—”

“I’m sorry,” Dougie says and flees, rushing past the crowded living room and throwing a quick wave to whoever shouts his name.

\----

He thinks about it now.

He thinks about the way Andrei will lean into him at a table or in a booth until Dougie lifts his arm up and over, letting him settle against his side.

He thinks about the way Andrei looks up at him, all soft eyes and endearing dimples.

He thinks and thinks until he’s sick with it, throwing himself into bed and praying that sleep takes him away from his churning thoughts.

\----

He’s about to crawl into bed, sore and tired, when a knock echoes through the room, and he curses whoever the hell is on the other side of the door.

He barely has time to get it open before Andrei is sliding past him, eyes hard and jaw set like it’s overtime and they’re shorthanded.

“The fuck?” Dougie gets out, more surprised than upset, and turns to see Andrei flip on the lamp and settle crosslegged on the bed. “What are you doing?”

Andrei pats the bed in front of him until Dougie heaves a sigh and takes a seat.

“You ignore me,” Andrei says, pointblank. “You run away on New Year’s, then not talk to me at practices or games or dinners.”

“I talk to you,” Dougie protests.

“Talk about hockey, about plays. Talk about Willy’s kids or Kegger’s date. Not talk about us, not talk about this,” he says, waving a hand between them to encompass whatever the hell they are.

Dougie’s tired, drained from the game and too many nights when he’s been chased from sleep by the phantom press of Andrei’s body, and he wants nothing more than to send Andrei back to his room, but that won’t change anything. Andrei is stubborn—persistent, if you want to be nice—as fuck, and sending him away now will just be delaying this conversation to another day, so Dougie rakes a hand through his hair and ignores the way Andrei tracks the movement.

“There can’t be an us. There can’t be a this,” he answers.

“Why not? I want,” and though Dougie had already assumed that from their kiss the other night, it still sends a thrill through him to hear Andrei say it, “and you want.”

Dougie wants to disagree, but Andrei raises a brow.

“You not want?” he asks, and it comes out like a challenge, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that makes Dougie realize he can’t lie to him.

“I want,” he admits.

“Then why not? We both want.”

Dougie huffs out a laugh and rubs at his temples. “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“What? Why? Because we teammates?”

“I mean, that’s definitely a part of it.”

“This not mess up team. Could be good for team if we closer, work better together.”

“And if we ever broke up? Or…or stopped whatever this is?” Dougie asks, mouth fumbling around the words.

“We’re adults, can happen,” Andrei shrugs, “but we’re not stupid. This is our job, Dougie. This is our life. If…” his eyes dart away, and he swallows thickly, “if break up, we not let it affect team.”

“We could never be out,” Dougie reminds him, cataloging the way Andrei’s eyes go a little misty when he talks about breaking up. “I know there’s You Can Play and Hockey is for Everyone, but there aren’t any out players, especially no rookie wonder kids, especially no Russians,” he finishes, dread settling in his stomach when he thinks about that. He’d known it couldn’t work out between them, known it wouldn’t be good for team dynamics, but he hadn’t even factored in Andrei’s homeland. Russia could keep him off the national team; hell, they could keep Andrei out of the country if he was ever caught kissing a man.

“I know. I…I already think about, know we have to keep secret, only tell few people, family and maybe Willy and coach, but is okay. We keep secret, and I’m play for Russia until can’t play hockey, then is okay for us be together.”

“Until you can’t play?” Dougie parrots, breathless at the words and the reminder that he is talking to a teenager, a kid who probably thinks about love like it’s forever, unconcerned about possible breakups that would keep them from even still being together when Andrei can’t play anymore.

“Yes,” he answers, certain and steady, and Dougie reels at the reckless confidence. “I know is long time to keep secret, but I want try, want try with you.”

“Jesus fuck. I…Andrei…you’re eighteen.”

“Nineteen in two months,” he answers quickly.

“You’re eighteen.”

“Yes, I’m eighteen, and I know this mean is long time until we not need keep secret, but I think is worth it.”

“Worth it?” Dougie repeats, brow furrowed as he looks at Andrei in shock. “I’m not even talking about how long we’d have to keep this a secret. I just…I’m talking about the fact that you’re eighteen—EIGHTEEN—and I’m twenty-five, way too old for you.”

“Is seven years, is nothing.”

“That’s a lot! That’s so much, too much.”

Andrei waves a hand dismissively. “Have cousin who is fifteen years younger than husband. Seven years half that, nothing.”

Dougie sputters. “That doesn’t mean we should— You can’t just—”

Breaching the space between them, Andrei lays a warm hand on Dougie’s knee. “Is not problem. Age is not problem; Russia is not problem; team is not problem.”

“You can’t just say it’s not a problem and expect that to solve anything,” Dougie grumbles out, though he doesn’t pull back when Andrei reaches for his hand and threads their fingers together.

“And you can’t say is problem if not happen yet,” he retorts. “If is problem later, we figure out. No big deal. We work together, like team.”

Dougie snorts at the words and strokes his thumb over the back of Andrei’s hand. “A team, eh?”

“Da, we’re team,” Andrei confirms, eyes dipping down to stare at Dougie’s lips, mouth parting the slightest bit.

“I don’t…” Flushing, Dougie forces himself to make eye contact with Andrei. If this is going to work—and that’s a really fucking big if—he needs to be mature about this, mature and open. “I’ve never done anything with a guy.”

Andrei’s smile turns positively predatory, and he shifts onto his knees, reaching out to brace his hands on Dougie’s shoulders. “Me either,” he says and moves forward until he is straddling Dougie’s lap, legs spread wide to bracket his hips. “We learn together, yes?”

Groaning, Dougie lifts his hands to fit them around Andrei’s waist. “Yeah, together,” he answers, the words swallowed up as Andrei descends on him.

\----

Sometimes, it’s all Dougie can think about.

When they get together at Turbo’s for videogames and Andrei squishes himself in between Dougie and the arm of the couch, tossing his legs over Dougie’s lap because the Finns figured them out real quick (and thank God for open-minded Europeans), Dougie thinks about it.

When Andrei spreads himself out on Dougie’s bed, bare and beautiful, and hauls Dougie up until he’s blanketing him, whispering in his ear about how much he wants this, needs this, muscled legs wrapping around Dougie’s waist like a vice, Dougie thinks about it.

He can’t not think about it, not with Andrei’s head tucked under his chin while they sleep, not with Andrei burrowing into his arms after a shitty loss, not with Andrei smiling up at him when he first introduces him to his mama as more than just a teammate.

\----

Dougie’s almost over the boards when he sees Ovechkin drop his gloves, fear and fury tearing through him as he watches Andrei swing uselessly. There’s a hand in his jersey, holding him in place, and he wants to push Slavs away, wants to hop the boards and throw himself between Ovechkin and Andrei, but he can’t.

He can’t, and Andrei’s on the ice, laid out, while Faulker waves for a trainer and Ovechkin is escorted to the box. Andrei tries to sit up, fails, then rolls over onto his hands and knees, heartbreakingly shaky, and Dougie feels like throwing up.

He hates seeing the way Andrei sways between Jordo and Faulker, face already beginning to turn a vivid red to mark each hit Ovechkin had landed. When he’s close enough to the bench, he lifts his head and catches Dougie’s eyes, mouth set in a hard line that Dougie has come to learn is just a ploy to hide his pain or frustration. They hold for a second, then two, before the trainer gets him off the ice and down the tunnel, and play resumes.

The period continues like nothing really happened, and Dougie’s practically shaking as they head to the locker room, teeth gnashing at his mouth guard viciously.

“Dougie.” Rod waves him over and lets the last guys slip by before saying anything more. “I need you in this game,” he begins, features grave. “I need you if we want to have any chance at winning this. Svech is hurt and shaken up, but he’s going to be okay—out for a few games probably—but he’ll pull through, so we need to make sure that there are still games to play when he comes back, alright?”

“Coach—” He holds up a hand, and Dougie falls silent.

“Trainers said it’d be fine if you went to see him,” Dougie’s eyes go wide, “so I’m giving you ten minutes, not a second more. Go see for yourself that he’s okay, then get your ass back out here and help us win this game. I need Dougie Hamilton who wants to win for his boyfriend, not Dougie Hamilton who’s worried to the point of distraction about him.”

The words are like a slap to the face, and Dougie gapes, mouth moving uselessly around words that he can’t sound out, stunned.

“Don’t gawp at me, kid,” he says gruffly. “I’m not stupid, and I’d like to think I know my players well enough to know when something is going on between them.”

“Coach, I promise it’s never—”

Rod silences him again. “I know, Dougie. I don’t need you to tell me that, but I would like you to promise me that you’re going to come out of that training room ready to play.”

“Yeah, I, yes.”

“Then get moving,” he says, waving Dougie away, and he hustles through the locker room, avoiding the questioning eyes of his teammates, heart thumping in his chest. A couple of the guys are in there, getting taped up or looked over, and a trainer nods over to a side door.

Dougie swallows back the fear and cracks the door open, sliding through before closing it gently behind him. The lights are dimmed, and Andrei is sitting, propped up by a mountain of pillows, holding an ice pack to his face.

“Oh _solntse_ ,” Dougie breathes out, setting his gloves and helmet aside, and Andrei offers him a watery smile in return.

“Look bad, I know.”

Stepping forward, Dougie takes a seat on the bed, careful not to jostle Andrei. “It doesn’t look great,” he admits, rubbing a soothing hand up Andrei’s leg.

“But you still want to date me, yes?” he asks, a teasing note to his voice. “Even if I’m ugly, you not break up with me.”

Dougie’s laugh comes out a bit choked, catching in his throat as he looks at the already purpling skin of Andrei’s cheek. “First of all, of course. I would never leave you over something that stupid. Second,” he continues, reaching a hand out to cradle the less bruised cheek, “you shouldn’t even be worried. As soon as those bruises heal up, you’re going to be just as gorgeous as you were before.”

Andrei lets out a broken sigh and bends forward, resting the ice pack against Dougie’s pads as he does his best to curl up under his chin. “Trainer said no sex.”

Dougie snorts, fingers tracing senseless patterns into Andrei’s back.

“It’s not funny. It’s awful.”

“It’s only for a little while,” Dougie promises. “Anyways, it’ll be good practice for the summer.”

Andrei pouts. “Still think we should just spend whole summer together. You come to Russia for a month, learn more Russian. I go to Canada for a month. Then we come back here for training camp in August.”

Dougie presses a gentle kiss to Andrei’s temple. “A month in Russia, a month in Canada, then training camp. You know, mathematically that only works out if we make a deep run in the playoffs. Hell, we’d have to make it all the way to the Finals for that to be the case.”

“We’ll do it,” Andre mutters. “Fuck Ovechkin, and fuck the Caps. We beat them. Then we beat next team and next, until we win Stanley Cup.”

“I like your confidence.”

“But if we want win,” Andrei says, pulling back enough to look Dougie in the eye, one pitiful brown orb boring into him, “you need to focus on game. You need to play good and score. Don’t worry about me. I’m be fine, good trainers, good care, but you need to go win, so when I come back, we’re still in playoffs.”

“Well, alright then.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, and so am I. I’ll get out there and play, score some goals, shut the Caps down, so we can move onto the next round.”

Andrei squints at him, then leans forward enough to leave a soft kiss at the corner of Dougie’s mouth. “Score for me, yes?”

Chuckling, Dougie returns the kiss, then gently trails up his cheek and over his fluttering eyelashes. “I’ll score for you, and you’ll take care of yourself for me, da?”

"Da," Andrei whispers, tilting his head up for another kiss that bleeds into another and then another, each more delicate than the last. It’s gentler than they’ve ever been, yet it hits Dougie harder, fingers trembling as he cradles Andrei’s face close.

A sharp rap at the door interrupts them, and Dougie presses a final kiss to Andrei’s mouth. “That’s my cue to leave.”

Andrei hums, leaning back into the pillows. “Go win for me, _lyubimiy_.”

“Of course.”

\----

Dougie thinks about it when he gets Andrei out to his car, an arm tight around his waist while Andrei rests his head in the crook of Dougie’s neck, uncaring about the teammates passing by because apparently everyone already knows and has kept their secret, too.

He thinks about it when Elena waves away his excuses and goodbyes, and Andrei tells him, voice soft from his position, that she is saying Dougie can stay for the night (“She says she knows we won’t do anything, since I’m injured.” “The fuck? We wouldn’t do anything with her in the same apartment even if you weren’t injured!” The look Andrei gives him begs to differ.).

He thinks about it when Andrei painstakingly finds the position that will let him curl into Dougie’s side without aggravating his injuries, whining until Dougie wraps an arm around him.

He thinks about it when Andrei’s tears wet his shirt later that night, sobs muffled against the fabric, and he runs a soothing hand down Andrei’s spine, whispering sweet nothings in English and Russian, hating the slight tremors that run through his _solntse_.

\----

Dougie can’t even blame it on the alcohol when they’re seated in the private room of a bar and Andrei is already mostly in his lap, fingers flirting at the hem of Dougie’s shirt as he mouths at the skin above his collarbone. There have been plenty of drinks, though Dougie’s still nursing his first beer, but Andrei has turned them all down with a minute headshake, still too fresh off the concussion to want anything that might bring the headaches back.

“Dougie, Dougs, my dude,” Marty hollers, crashing into the chair beside them, already three sheets to the wind. “I have a question. Well, I mean, we have a question,” he corrects, hand wheeling through the air to encompass…the whole room maybe.

“We?” Dougie repeats back, holding in a groan when Andrei nips at his earlobe, teeth scraping over tender skin.

“Yeah, we, us, your teammates.”

“Okay.”

There’s a moment’s pause before Marty realizes his error. “Oh shit, dude, I didn’t even ask the question, did I? Fuck, man, I am plastered. God, my bad. Anyways, we were just wanting to ask about this,” he finishes, gesturing at where Andrei seems determined to haul himself fully into Dougie’s lap, though they both know he’ll only be able to stay there for fifteen minutes, twenty tops, before Dougie’s legs half asleep, and he has to regretfully return Andrei to his own chair.

“What do you mean this?” Dougie asks and grunts when Andrei is finally successful.

Marty’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “Jesus fuck, you guys definitely aren’t holding back anymore.”

Dougie knows he should be embarrassed, but he’s not, and he can’t find it in himself to care. He just lifts an eyebrow in return, sliding a couple fingers into one of Andrei’s belt loops.

“I mean this!” Marty exclaims, hand waving widely. “First of all, dude, how the hell did you wheel Svechy?”

Dougie huffs. “What? You don’t think my witty humor and natural good looks are enough?”

“I mean normally yes, but Svech was supposed to be like the young, hot, Russian superstar ready to break the heart of every girl and probably some boys as well, but no one even had the time to realize that before you’d already snatched him up.”

Andrei detaches himself from Dougie long enough to give Marty a squinty side-eye. “Don’t want anyone else,” he informs him, before returning to the task at hand. Thankfully, he’s aware enough to pull Dougie’s shirt away when he decides to start in on a hickey that’ll last for a few days at least.

“I don’t get it, man,” Marty sighs, knocking back another mouthful of whatever he’s been slamming all night, “and I’m not saying that you aren’t great, Dougie boy, but this kid’s already gone on you like so hard, and I just don’t get how you managed that.”

Andrei pulls back again, and Dougie can see the barely-hidden annoyance, and he cringes at whatever is about to be said.

“Has best dick,” Andrei tells him, indiscreetly trailing a hand down Dougie’s torso until he’s forced to grab at his wrist, unwilling to go quite that far in front of a teammate. Andrei pouts but relents. “Also, he’s best listener,” he continues, staring Marty down, “always let me complain about annoying teammates who can’t mind own business, and he help me with English and with hockey whenever I need. He never get mad and is always friendly and nice, even when other people aren’t. He’s the best,” he says, flippantly, “so I want be with him.”

Marty whistles lowly, nodding as Andrei turns and gets his teeth back in the meat of Dougie’s shoulder. “Got it, kay. Dougie is the best, so Andrei wants that D.” He giggles at his joke, and Dougie rolls his eyes.

“Thanks for the chat, Marts,” he says, dismissive, his fingers skating up the back of Andrei’s shirt.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just—wait! Wait, there was another question. Mac—uh, I mean we, we wanted to know…uh, is Svech always so…I mean, he’s not a small dude, but he’s like sitting in your lap, and I just…is this like a thing or…”

Dougie sighs, but anything he had planned to say is cut off when Andrei abruptly extricates himself from Dougie’s arms, rising to his full height.

“I like sit in Dougie’s lap, is comfortable and warm, and is best spot for kissing. I like; he like. That’s all. You have problem with it?”

“No!” Marty responds, hands raised like Andrei’s holding him at gunpoint. “No, no problem. You’re good. This is good.”

“Good. If you have more questions, save for later. Me and Dougie are going home,” he announces, fingers reaching back for Dougie.

“But the party’s just getting started, man! Don’t leave yet.”

Andrei scoffs. “Party here is not better than party we could have at home,” and Dougie’s cheeks burn a vivid red. “We agree to stay for one hour, and I know is longer than that, so we go home now.”

“But—”

“Marty,” Andrei interrupts, and it’s in the huffy voice he gets when Dougie’s had him riding the edge for too long, good but not enough, and he’s about to demand exactly what he wants. “We not have real sex since concussion. I tell Dougie we can after I cleared for concussion, but he wants wait a few days to be sure I’m better. It’s been few days; I’m better. Now, we go home, make up for lost time.”

Marty is sputtering, wide-eyed and stunned speechless, and Andrei grins, tugging at Dougie’s hand until he stands.

“Bye, Marty,” he says. “And pass on message to team. We not want interruptions.”

Dougie stammers out a farewell and follows after Andrei, relinquishing his hand when they get out into the main bar, praying that they don’t look as suspicious as he feels.

\----

It’s all that Dougie thinks about, all that matters.

When Andrei pushes him down on the bed and crawls over him, filthy words spilling out, dirty little phrases in English that only Dougie could have taught him (“Wanted ride you in the bar. Like Marty, but can be so stupid. I want show him who I belong to, who you belong to,” he murmurs, opening himself up with a singlemindedness that leaves Dougie breathless), Dougie thinks about it.

When Andrei is bouncing in his lap, powerful thighs propelling him up and back down, and he bends forward enough to tell Dougie that he wants it on his back next, wants Dougie over him and inside him, swallowing down Dougie’s protest that he’s not a teenager anymore, Dougie thinks about it.

When they’re lying in the chaos of his bed, condoms tied off in the garbage can and Andrei mumbling out praise for Dougie making it two rounds (“Two rounds,” he sniggers.) as he settles into his favorite spot, half-sprawled across Dougie, head on his shoulder, Dougie thinks about it.

He thinks about it and thinks about how grateful he is for the trade, for the fateful day that decided he and Andrei would play for the same team. He thinks about it and smiles, pressing a tired kiss to Andrei’s sweaty hair.

_"Ya lyublyu tebya,"_ he whispers, and Andrei releases a punched-out moan.

“Love you,” he answers, fingers curling over Dougie’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who might be curious about the accuracy of these events (I mean, obviously the relationship is fictional, but I did try to make everything else as realistic as possible), Andrei was not still at PNC after his fight. He left the building almost immediately; even HCRB didn't know if he was okay (article here). However, it served my purposes better to have him cared for at the rink. And the Canes celebrated the Isles sweep at someone's house, not at a bar (as evidenced by the video of the Marty Party on the Canes twitter). I just hadn't seen the video before I finished the fic.


End file.
